


Teenage Dirtbag

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Bad Boys, Bathtubs, Breaking and Entering, Brotherhood of Mutants, Enemies to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Greek immigrant Lance Alvers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neglect, Oneshot, Poverty, Teenage Drama, Theft, They really do care, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, drag racing, hooligans, someone please give scott a hug., they just suck at showing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Two sides of the same coin don’t always get along... But they can try. (Aww, look; they really DO tolerate each other!)
Relationships: Lance Alvers/Scott Summers
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52





	Teenage Dirtbag

**Author's Note:**

> TW for roofies/attempted rape in section #6 (it's not graphic, and things turn out okay).
> 
> This one's been living in my drafts' folder for over a year now. Someone was shit-talking Lance on Tumblr, and spite motivated me to dig out some old stuff and polish it up. I love my tumultuous son.
> 
> (I've got a [cheesy playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4bXBmEi4b6Y3ZF2cwlev0KQreENd2UCB) for them, but it's mostly the absolute cliché punk/rock you know they both love.)
> 
> Also you should check out [Kokolo's Evo/Lietro fics!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokolo/pseuds/Kokolo/works) She's started archiving all her stuff on ao3 and it's great.

**#1#**

Alvers was back on his nonsense.

Scott heaved a deep sigh when the Jeep pulled alongside his convertible where he idled at the red light, smelling of exhaust and coolant and, Scott was almost positive, _marijuana._ Horrible boys. Horrible Jeep.

“Ignore them,” Jean said from the passenger seat, her voice muffled because she was applying lipstick, using the back of a CD as a mirror.

“I _am,”_ Scott huffed. A blatant lie, and a useless one. She could read his thoughts. She knew he was doing no such thing.

“Good. Keep that in mind, because they’re about to start heckling.”

_“Heck—”_

“Yo, _Summers!”_ Toad called, leaning out the back, Blob holding tight to his belt to keep him in the vehicle. “Nice monkey-suit, Summers! Taking your girl back to the zoo where she belongs?”

Jean capped her lipstick, slid it into her tiny purse, and replaced the CD in its sleeve. Her expression did not change. She didn’t so much as glance their way.

Scott tried not to let his face heat. He was wearing a tailored three-piece suit that Jean insisted made him look debonair. He wasn’t sure about the color, but then, when was he _ever_ sure about color? Everything looked red to him.

Alvers revved his engine. From a vehicle the size and weight of a small dinosaur, the sound made Scott flinch. Somehow, even over the continuous revving, Scott could hear the dirtbag’s snickering.

“I hate him so much,” he muttered.

Though there were four boys in the Jeep, Jean didn’t have to ask which ‘him’ Scott meant. The rest were just accessories. There was only one ‘him.’

Blob and Toad, Scott had some sympathy for. He knew their situations were less than ideal. Dukes had learning disabilities and dyslexia and who knew what else. Tolanski spent most of his life homeless before being groomed, abused, by Mystique. Neither of them were getting the help they clearly needed.

Quicksilver was a little twerp, sure, but the boy had daddy issues out the wazoo. Scott, an orphan, would still gladly take his own parental situation (or lack thereof) over Quicksilver’s any day.

But _Alvers?!_

He was too smart to be as lazy as he was. He was too strong to be such a troublemaker— when one could crumble buildings without any real effort, they had a requirement; nay, an _obligation,_ to work for the side of good. He had no excuse to be as terrible as he was; forever a thorn in Scott’s side.

Every time he glimpsed that handsome, smirking face, he nearly forgot that he was a rational, peaceable gentleman, and felt the childish urge to throw a punch. Alvers was the living embodiment of everything Scott detested.

Jean rested a hand on Scott's knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He gave his girlfriend a tentative smile before taking her hand in his.

She smiled back, and all was right in his world. With Jean by his side, it was easy to ignore the delinquents. People like them simply... Did not matter.

The light turned from red to yellow — Scott couldn’t see the distinct colors, of course, but he knew which order they were in.

Alvers rocketed his Jeep forward, slamming the brakes just before hitting that white line into oncoming traffic. Scott tensed. “What is he…?”

“He wants you to drag-race.” Jean rolled her eyes. _“Such_ a child.”

Alvers reversed. Repeated; hopping forward a few inches, revving his engine, backing up again. A taunt. A call to action. A wolf cub bowing, rump in the air, tail waving like a flag.

Ridiculous. Alvers drove an ancient, rusted bucket of junk that carried the weight of four passengers. It would take no effort whatsoever to crush him in such a race. Scott’s precious convertible, hand-buffed to a candy-gloss every Saturday morning, could turn on a dime; could go from zero to ninety in a heartbeat, if he wanted it to. If he let it happen.

He never would, of course. Scott was _responsible._

“You are _not_ considering this,” Jean snapped. It sounded more like a command than a question.

The light went green. Alvers blazed forward. Quicksilver extended an arm out the passenger window, a single finger raised high as the Jeep cut the horizon in half, out of sight. Never out of mind.

Scott sighed. Crossed the street at a respectable, law-abiding pace. "Of course not."

**#2#**

The upstairs windows were smashed to hell; yawning voids good for nothing but channeling the wind. After a big rain, the Brotherhood started smelling mold. They closed all the doors they could and migrated downstairs.

They were really good at distracting themselves from worries, like how they were going to keep warm come winter. Weed made them laugh. Beer made them sleep. As long as they had plenty of both, their troubles stayed at a respectful distance.

Mystique had been gone for three weeks, and Rogue for two. It wasn’t as though Lance had been particularly fond of Rogue, but like. She was _okay._ Sometimes it felt like the two of them were the ‘adults’ of the place; making the decisions, running the show. Getting the food.  
  
Did that make him a single dad, then, in this metaphor?

Fine. Whatever. Todd didn’t eat much, so stealing enough beef jerky to keep him functioning wasn’t hard. Feeding Pietro and Fred was more difficult. They metabolized calories at a frantic rate. Pietro, like a hummingbird, found that excess sugar at least kept his brain going. It was easier to steal pounds of sugar to mix with water, even if it left the rest of him feeling shitty and wired.

Lance had the most “normal” appetite off them all, and despite Principal Kelly’s best efforts, the school had yet to discontinue its breakfast and lunch programs for the poverty cases. He got at least two meals a day, Monday through Friday. That just left weekends to worry about.

But hey. The rich bitches of Bayville didn’t mind a little rowdiness at their parties. The Brotherhood pretty much had carte blanche to crash the lowkey ones, so long as Todd brought weed and Pietro could be coaxed into stealing some of the hard stuff from liquor stores. 

Parties meant food. Sometimes, if they got their classmates drunk enough, parties meant raiding whole fucking pantries, and all the toilet paper, too.

They weren’t stupid about it. 

Well, no more stupid than they had to be. 

They stayed away from the preps and the jocks. They knew which side the bread was buttered on. Stoner humans; artsy types; rich kids who thought they were hard; all prime targets. Shitkickers, sometimes, though once some country asshole called Pietro the f-slur, and then the g-slur, and one thing led to another and whoops, in come the X-brats like big fucking heroes  
  
There’d be a big, stupid fight. Daddy Xavier had had to swoop in and do his freaky mind-wipe shit.

“Why don’t you boys live up to your potential?” He’d looked at them with his sad Gandalf eyes, like they were all just big old disappointments; like they were capable of being anything more than the dirt they’d come from, and were just _choosing_ not to be. “You make a bad name for us all.”

Easy for him to say, with his cushy mansion and tea-time at four and yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, pass the hookers and blow.

Anyway. Partying with low-hanging fruit; that was how the Brotherhood kept their bellies full. 

The four found themselves in a basement party at Marcy Something-or-Other’s daddy’s summer home, and Lance was feeling cagey cuz he knew what meth smelled like — he’d grown up around his mom and her boyfriends, after all — and that very smell was steaming from one of the darker corners.

When Todd wandered that way, Lance caught him and dragged him back, distracted, as always, by how thin the boy was; how fragile his bones felt under Lance’s big hands. “Don’t fucking smoke _anything,_ Todd, I mean it.”

He shook the toad and stared into his eyes until Todd gulped, palms up in defeat. “A’right, a’right. Easy-peasy; in an’ out.”

Lance grunted and let him go. 

He wasn’t a total dumbass. He knew Todd had done hard shit on the streets. But drugs were stupider for mutants to do than normal humans. The effects of drugs had been _studied_ extensively on normal humans. _Normal_ human nurses were trained in fighting _normal_ human overdoses.

None of the Brotherhood were “normal humans.” Who knew what in the _fuck_ kind of reactions their freaky mutant biology might cause?

And yeah, ‘alcohol is a drug.’ ‘Weed isn’t as harmless as people say.’ Get off his dick, school D.A.R.E program. Lance wasn’t perfect. Lance wasn’t a saint. Lance kept his boys alive as best he could, but he was still a teenage dirtbag, and he only held so much sway.

He rolled his eyes and tromped up from the basement, guesstimating the layout of the place. His backpack hung empty on his shoulders, waiting to be stuffed with bread loaves and bologna and whatever else he found in Marcy Something-or-Other’s daddy’s summer-home kitchen.

It was a pretty sweet house. Huge windows all over — more window than wall, it felt like. Heavy oak furniture. Weird taxidermied animal heads all over the place, though, ‘cuz humans sure loved to kill shit.

He stopped to study a mountain lion posed over an archway — a whole fucking mountain lion! Was that even legal?! — and shivered uneasily at the blank look in her golden glass eyes. The dust gathered in her whiskers. Creepy as _fuck._

A female voice carrying further up the hallway gave him pause. Had someone snuck off to make out already? He grinned and propped his shoulders against the wall, eavesdropping, wondering who was about to get lucky.

“Duncan, we shouldn’t. It’s over between us!”

“Aw, come on, Jeannie.”  
  
Oh...?

Oh, _shit!_

Duncan _Matthews?_ Jean _Grey?!_ _  
_ _  
_ An incredulous laugh huffed from somewhere near his core. What were Bayville's best and brightest doing at a party that started out a misdemeanor, and quickly became a felony? Lance knew police bait when he smelled it, and he intended to get his boys out of this house while he still could. 

Marcy Something-or-Other might be rich and well-connected, but she sure as shit wasn't worth risking the best GPAs money could buy!  
  
"I said I was sorry. How many times I gotta say it?! I'm your guy. I don't care that you're a... You're—"

"A mutant. See, Duncan, you can’t even say the word!”

"I can! I will! I... Jeannie, I _love_ you. As long as you don't tell my dad what you are, we can still..."

"I deserve better than having to hide. I have someone who understands me better than you ever will.”

Wow; point goes to the redhead. The bossman himself would've (internally) fist-pumped at her mutant pride.

Not for long, though, because within the next two minutes, Lance heard her crumble.

"I mean it, Jeannie... Can't you read my mind? Can't you see I'm serious this time? I'll... I'll do right by you. You make me a better person; I need you. You know Summers is just a rebound. You know what you really want..."

There's silence for so long that Lance began to feel awkward. Shit; what was he doing? What did he care if Jock and Ginger swapped spit? Not his problem...

"No, Duncan, I can't."

"Baby!"

"Not... Not yet. Let me... Let me do things right. I'll talk to Scott before I... Before I let this go any further."

"You're so good, Jean; you see what I mean? What other girl would turn this down long enough to dump their dead weight properly? I really—"

Lance finally slunk away, an odd leaden feeling in his stomach. It didn't sound like Jean was gonna cheat on Summers, which was good — being cheated on was pure ass, no matter who you were — but it sounded like the boyscout was in for a rotten weekend, all the same.

Not that Lance cared, of course. He had groceries to steal.

**#3#**

Scott had spent the past month in a dreary haze after Jean put their relationship on ice, saying she didn't know her own feelings anymore. 

Scott knew _his_ feelings, alright: he felt numb. Numb and cold.

He was still getting used to driving without her in his passenger seat, reminding him to use his blinker and slow down in school zones. It wasn't something he'd ever _wanted_ to get used to. Scott Summers wasn’t a summer fling — he was a ‘mate-for-life’ kinda guy. Like a beaver, or an angelfish.  
  
He almost blew through a red light not two miles from home. The blaring of horns all around had him slamming on the brakes, his eyes huge, his heart in his throat.

Oh, dear. He really wasn't being safe right now, was he? He needed to pull over and snap out of it before he hurt someone.

When the light turned green, he uneasily crept forward and then pulled into the nearest parking lot, finding a place to bury his face in his hands and take several long, deep breaths.

He wanted to scream, but Scott Summers wasn't the screaming type. He was the 'bottle it up while dying inside' type. _Alvers_ was the screaming type.

Scott hadn't been there when he and Kitty broke up, but he imagined it hadn't been a pretty scene. The emotional disaster probably wrecked some public property, because he had no sense of decorum; no concept of control. He was...

He was leaving a shabby building not far from where Scott was parked.

Startled, Scott watched him walk to the street, rather than the parking lot. Where was his Jeep? Surely he couldn’t have walked all the way out here; it was a good four miles from the rubble-heap they called “home.”

Curious, and more than a little suspicious, Scott followed him, careful to keep half a block behind him. Lucky it was a low-traffic day; it was easy to keep Lance in his sights.

He thought Lance was heading for home, though he still had a long way to go. He could turn and go somewhere else at any point...

... Or, maybe, he couldn't. Not ten minutes into his walk, Alvers's legs buckled like a newly-born fawn’s, and down he went, sprawling in the gutter with limbs akimbo.

Scott was so surprised he nearly drove into the curb. He quickly straightened out against the shoulder and hit his hazard lights, then stared at Lance, who had pillbugged up and covered his face with two shaking hands.

Was he high? Drunk? It was barely past lunchtime!

Unease ate at Scott. The boy didn't look injured, as though he'd been in any fights, but neither did he look well. Despite general disdain towards the Brotherhood, they were still mutants. Scott couldn't help but feel some obligation, some solidarity.

Scott hissed a sigh between his teeth, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stood. This wasn't going to be fun.

"Alvers," he called, walking towards the lump of Lance still in the gutter. Sneaking up on an avalanche mid-meltdown would probably not end well. It was better to make his presence known.

Lance looked up at him with bloodshot eyes as he approached and heaved a groan. "Oh, God," he muttered. "Not you..."

"Gee, thanks." Scott's sarcasm was biting. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, Summers. I just live here now."

This conversation was getting him nowhere, and the cars that passed them slowed, nosy onlookers watching with curious eyes. "I'm gonna help you up. Don't attack me."

"I make no promises."

Despite his grouching, when Scott stood on the sidewalk behind Lance, bent, and grabbed him under the armpits, the other boy didn't offer any resistance. Scott got him to his feet and then held on, covertly giving a sniff for alcohol. He didn't smell anything, but Alvers _was_ a little clammy.

"Are you sick?" Scott asked.

"I mean. I kinda _want_ to puke on you. I'd stand back, if I was you."

He sounded sincere enough that Scott almost did just that. Instead, he said "I'll take you to see Hank."

It would be easier than taking him to an actual doctor, anyway. Scott didn't think the other boy had the money for one, and while he wasn't visibly mutated, like Kurt, he was volatile enough that one move or word, and he'd probably quake the place.

"Oh, God," Lance said again, sounding more tired than annoyed. His head fell back, thunking against Scott. "Don't; I'm fine. I just sold some plasma and got dizzy."

Oh? _... Oh!_ There was a new plasma lab in town he'd heard some talk of at school. Anyone eighteen or older could have the plasma filtered out of their blood, and was paid for it. Scott didn't know how much money they earned, but apparently they (legally) could do it up to twice a week. Charles had specifically told his X-Men not to do so, however, because there was no telling what such an experience might do to a mutant’s defenses.

He looked at the medical tape holding a cotton ball to the crook of Lance's elbow, considering. "Have you eaten?"

"Fuck, no! You think I'm gonna spend what I just earned on _food?"_

Scott huffed. "Oh, so passing out in the gutter is the better option?"

"Fuck off."

"Swear at me all you want; you know I'm right. You're being stupid."  
  
Lance abruptly surged forward and vomited, attempting to shove Scott away from himself as he did.

Startled, Scott kept hold of Lance's arms and lowered them both to the pavement until they were kneeling, and then did what he always did whenever one of the younger X-kids was sick; he gathered Lance's long hair back and held it in one hand, keeping it out of his face.

Lance dry-heaved for a long time into the gutter, his stomach too empty to properly vomit, but still convulsing anyway. He panted for breath, then scrubbed the back of his mouth with his hand.

"It's this fucking heat," he mumbled, sounding almost embarrassed. "Heat plus blood loss plus empty stomach."

"Not a good combo," Scott agreed. Especially when the victim was a smoker. "Do you think you can stand?"  
  
It was a struggle to get Alvers back to his feet, but once he managed, Scott muscled him towards his convertible. Lance complained the entire way, but didn't actually put up too much of a fight when he was shoved into the passengers' seat.

"You'd make a good cop," he sneered when Scott walked around and got into the drivers' seat.

"If I was trying to be a cop, I'd've left you in the gutter," Scott pointed out, irritated, and reached across Alvers's lap to fish in the glovebox for a water bottle. "Drink this." He also produced a protein bar, which was dropped onto Alvers's knee. "Eat that."

"You really put the 'dick' in 'dictator,' boyscout." Alvers's head fell back against the headrest, bearing the long column of his throat, and he chugged from the bottle. Scott watched his Adam's apple bob as he drank.

When half the bottle was drained, Lance set it between his knees and took a shaky breath, wet lips gleaming. His eyes opened a fraction, and he looked at Scott with tired brown eyes.

Scott cleared his throat, awkward now that he wasn't running the show. “Where’s your Jeep?”  
  
“Battery’s fuckin’ dead, and I don’t have anyone to jumpstart it.”  
  
“I… can do that. I have cabels. You probably need a new battery, though…” Not that he could afford it, probably. Damn.  
  
Lance must have really been feeling bad, because he didn’t argue. Minutes passed. The AC on Lance’s sweaty skin was starting to make him break out in goosebumps, so Scott lowered the intensity of the blast. "Are you going to throw up again?"

"Yes. Directly down your pants."

"Ha, ha." Scott grabbed up the untouched protein bar off Lance's leg and tore the wrapper, peeling it back before forcing it into Lance's hand. "I told you to eat this."

"Those taste like chalk."

"I didn't ask."

He took a bite, so Scott started the car up, turned off the hazard lights, and pulled from the shoulder to resume driving. He had to make a goofy U-turn as he mentally recalculated and made for the Brotherhood's trashed house, but Lance had closed his eyes again, so he didn't see. It seemed for once, he was too worn out to be a total jerk.

Well. That was alright, then.

**#4#**

It was two weeks into June, one week into the nastiest heatwave that'd hit central New York in a decade, when the Brotherhood got a knock on their front door.

"Oh, God," Lance groaned, from where he lay on the bathroom floor. It was the coolest spot in the house, by virtue of having a tile floor and the smallest window, and still he was disintegrating into a puddle of his own sweat. "No. Answer is no. Whoever it is, tell 'em to fuck off."

"Tell 'em yourself," Fred retorted. He was leaning against the fridge, which was cracked open so that Todd (who'd squeezed himself between a six-pack of beer and some suspicious-looking bean sprouts), could breathe.

Of course Pietro wasn't there to answer the door. That asshole had run for cooler weather the second the humidity level reached 'drowning in soup' percentages.  
  
When the knock sounded again, and it became clear nobody else was getting up, Lance slipped and slid his way through puddles of sweat and threw the front door open, letting in a blast of oven-baked air. "Fucking _what?!"_ He demanded of their unexpected visitor. "Can't you let us melt in peace?"

Scott Summers blinked morosely back at him. He'd traded his starched uniform for a white tank-top, quickly going transparent with sweat, sandals, and what might have been swimming shorts. His fair shoulders had already freckled and pinked from the sun.

Lance stared at him, then past him; at the heat wave that rippled across their scrubby, weed-filled front yard. "You couldn't have brought the ice guy?" he croaked. "Billy?"

"Bobby. I brought the next best thing." He handed Lance a plastic grocery bag. Peeking inside, Lance saw a carton of Otter Pops, still frosty from the freezer. When he looked back up at Scott, he saw the other mutant was still watching him.  
  
"Can I come in?" Summers asked.  
  
Lance was too fatigued to argue. He didn't even have the energy to ask why Scott _wanted_ to be here. "Knock yourself out."

He turned back into the house, and after a moment, Scott followed, shutting the door behind himself. Scott took his time looking around. If he had more energy, Lance might've been embarrassed about what a dump the place was — cracked walls, broken tiles, that one patch of mold on the kitchen ceiling that never went away... Not to mention the junk and trash strewn everywhere. The exposed springs on the sofa...

He tossed a handful of pops to Fred and Todd, took some for himself, and put the rest in the freezer, aware all the while of Scott's eyes on his back. If Summers expected him to put some clothes on, he could think again. There was no way Lance was wearing anything but boxers today.  
  
"Your hair's all... puffy." Scott gestured to the bun Lance had twisted his hair into, which had frizzed up bigger than a softball at the nape of his neck.  
  
"Humidity. S'what happens when you're Greek." Lance dimly recalled his own mother getting a bad case of 'the frizzies' whenever moisture filled the air. She used to make jokes about it; about her hair missing the ocean so much that it attempted to mimic the waves...  
  
He hadn't thought about his mother in a long time. He must be in some kinda mood today. Great.  
  
"Are you? Greek?" Scott sounded genuinely curious as he followed Lance back to the bathroom, watching the other boy fling himself into the empty tub. After some consideration, Scott sat down on the closed lid of the toilet.  
  
"Turn the light off," Lance requested. Scott did as asked. Enough sunlight streamed through the window that they could still see each other. "There's some aloe in the cabinet. For your shoulders."  
  
"Oh?" Scott looked at himself in the dirty mirror. "Are they burned?"  
  
He must not be able to see the color difference, what with his glasses. "Starting to."  
  
"Thanks." Scott rooted through toothpaste packets until he found the tub, smearing the transparent goo on his skin. "You didn't answer my question. You're Greek?"  
  
"Dunno why you care, but yeah. Second-gen. My mom spoke fuckall English when she got here... They changed our name at immigration."  
  
"What was it?"  
  
"Alvaréz. My middle name is Dominikos, after my grandpa. Pretty sure he's where I got my powers from... He was called the 'man who moved mountains' in family journals, apparently." Too bad he didn't have those journals anymore. Or anyone in his family he could ask.  
  
Though, why he was telling any of this to Summers was anyone's guess. Lance shrugged, ripped the plastic tip off a pop, and slurped out the icy, sugary goodness.  
  
In a shocking moment of boldness, Scott reached into the tub and snatched a second pop off of Lance's belly.

Lance caught his wrist, stopping him. Plucking the pink tube out of Scott's fingers and replacing it with a different one. "The light blue ones are better; trust me."

Scott held it up to the light. "It looks dark purple to me."

"Tro would call that 'color theory,' or something."

Scott opened the pop. Tipped his head back. Bit off a chunk of ice. Something about the sight made Lance avert his face, looking instead at his own bare feet, propped up on the shower wall. He needed to trim his nails again.

"You're right. The blue ones _are_ better," Scott agreed quietly.  
  
Lance grunted, using his foot to twist a faucet handle. Cool water started flooding the tub. Watching him, Scott snorted. "You really don't handle heat well, do you?"

"I'm used to Chicago weather."

"Doesn't Chicago get crazy snow?"

If Lance had been informed he'd spend the afternoon in a bathtub eating phallic snacks while Summers played Twenty Questions, he might've laughed. As it was, he thought he was starting to understand the situation. There was something Summers was avoiding. Something... He was running away from. Hiding from.

Lance decided to humor him a while longer. "Yeah... Winters are brutal, but I don't mind."

The water was up to his chest. If he laid flat on his back — he had to line his hips flush against the wall to manage it, legs straight up in the air; he was too damn big for this tub — he could submerge his head under water. He missed the public pool. He'd done some lifeguarding there last summer, til an incident involving Todd and the hamburger stand got him fired...

He opened his eyes under water, seeing the distorted image of Scott watching him. Lance watched him back, through the ripples, wondering what was going on in that head of his. What it was that had him running to the Brotherhood house for sanctuary.

Thirty seconds passed. Forty. Fifty. Eighty.

Just when it looked like Scott was going to reach in and pull him out, Lance sat back up, gasping. Shaking droplets off like a labrador chasing ducks.

"Refreshing," he said, grinning toothily at Scott's unamused expression. He shut the water off with his toes. "Why're you here, Summers? Did Daddy Warbucks scold you for forgetting to dust his stacks of cash?"

Scott glared at him. "Hilarious."

"I know, right? I've been working on my standup routine for a while." Lance sat up and crossed his arms on the edge of the tub, resting his chin on top. He looked up at Scott through damp eyelashes, the very pantomime of rapt attention. "Come on; you can tell me."

"There isn't..." Scott sighed, deflating a bit. "There isn't any one thing to tell. I just... Don't you ever feel it? The... The pressure building up? That you have to take care of everyone, all the time, and... And if they get hurt... If something goes wrong..."

Scott cut himself off, jaws clamping shut so firmly, so completely they might have been a cement door. He glared at the floor, and anxiously began popping his knuckles.

"If something goes wrong, it's your fault. It's your job to take care of the kids, and if anything happens to them, it's on you," Lance finished for him.

Scott said nothing. He only swallowed, his chin bobbing in the slightest of nods.

Of course Lance knew the feeling, the pressure that built and built and had to be let out in as destructive a way as possible. Crumbling a building. Pressing a lit cigarette to his own arm. Drinking until he could no longer stand upright.

He reached a pruny finger out of the tub and ran it along Scott's calf, following a trail of freckles and hairs. Summers had nicer calves than he did... Lance should focus more on leg workouts.

He drew a connecting star between five tiny freckles. Scott watched him silently, turning his leg so Lance could reach more. After a time, they both sighed.

"Is it better here?" Lance asked. "Less... pressure?"

Scott considered, rolling up the empty wrapper from his pop between his fingers. "I think so... But only when you're here, too."

**#5#**

Maybe Scott was wrong about the 'no pressure' thing.

"This is peer pressure," he said flatly, glaring at the Brotherhood. "And I don't have to take it."

The four boys shared wicked grins. "Come on, _Scott..."_ Todd wheedled, badly holding back laughter. "All the _cool kids_ are doing it..."

"Are they? Are they really? Because funnily enough, I don't know anyone who's ever taken out a security camera for breaking-and-entering purposes!"

"That's because you don't know anyone cool," Pietro quipped. "You really gift-wrap our mockery for us, Summers; choose your words better."

"Shouldn't you, too, then? You're either implying that I don't know you, or that you, too, are part of the uncool masses."

Pietro looked mutinous. Lance ducked to hide his grin in the steering wheel of his Jeep.

Alvers's Jeep wasn't designed to seat five people, but Todd was tiny, and Pietro, slim. They both crammed just fine in the front passengers' seat, rolling their eyes when Scott argued that it wasn't safe for two people to share a seatbelt.

"I can't believe you're pressuring me to use my powers on something so stupid. Do you even know how dangerous they are? This is so irresponsible..."

Lance arched an eyebrow. "Your daughter calls me 'daddy,' too."

"What?!" Scott was horrified to find his face flaming red. He masked it with a scowl, hoping the darkness of the night was enough to hide it.

"Oh, sorry. You were lecturing so much it felt like you were some chick's _parent."_

With a scowl, Scott slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms. Hooligans; the lot of them.

Fred slung a comradely arm over Scott's shoulders. "Look, it's simple," he said, pointing out the window to the back of a stagnant security camera mounted on the brick wall of a local McDonalds. "Just zap it out, and we'll eat like kings."

"Can't one of you do it?" Todd could climb up the wall to unscrew it, or even spit thick green mucus over the lens. Pietro could speed fast enough to kick it out of orbit. Heck; Fred could just reach up and crush it like a can of soda in his massive fist.

"Well, sure, we could," Fred nodded in agreement. "But that's not the point."

"Gotta make sure you're with us. Make sure y'ain't gonna squeal," Todd continued, obviously trying to sound like an old gangster flick.

"Or what, you'll torture me? Bamboo shoots under the fingernails; electric shocks to the nipples?"

"Summers, nobody wants to hear about your secret kinks. Are you gonna do this or not?"

Scott sighed. 'Or not' would probably entail him walking back to Xavier on foot... And home was miles away.

Weren't teenagers supposed to be rebellious? This was just his Rumspringa. His quarter-life crisis. He'd allow himself this one day of naughtiness, and then it'd be back to Future Valedictorian Scott Summers: the responsible one who always did what he was supposed to.

He leaned past Fred, frowned, and reached to push the back of Lance's head until he bent closer to the steering wheel. His hair was startlingly soft, and Scott quickly snatched his hand back. "Stay down, Alvers; I'm not playing around. I could really hurt you."

Lance snarled, but stayed put, watching Scott in the side-mirror.

Scott focused his gaze on the back of the security camera, hardly daring breathe lest he misfire. It was a very small target. He was wearing his good visor tonight; the one with the adjustable 'settings.' With a flick of a dial, he lowered one (of three) layers of ruby quartz.

The smallest stream of energy was permitted to escape his control, frying the camera. The entire parking lot reeked of melted plastic before Scott once more adjusted his visor, leaving him safe to look around at the others. "Happy?!"

The professor wouldn't be happy, that was for sure. Charles had drummed it into their heads, day after day, that powers were not toys to be played with. That they had to approach their gifts with the utmost care. That they'd been blessed over the rest of the world, and they owed it to themselves to respect it.

This was, without doubt, an abuse of powers.

Lance gave him a lazy grin, showing off slightly crooked teeth; crinkling his warm brown eyes. Something about it flipped Scott's tummy, and he quickly looked away. Alvers had no right to start being charming now that he was getting his way.

"A'right!" Todd cheered, and scrabbled out of the Jeep, approaching a rectangular vent on the lower half of the empty building; a vent that likely let out gas and heat from the restaurant's fryer and oven. Despite his webbed fingers, he was handy with a toolset. He got the vent unscrewed; wriggled his small body inside in a matter of seconds. A minute later, he opened the front door for the rest of them to file inside.

The first thing Scott noticed was a second, smaller security camera directly above the cash register. Todd had taped a paper bag over the lens. So his taking out the first camera really _was_ just a test, then.

The four Brotherhood boys moved with alarming efficiency, heading straight for the kitchen and opening the walk-in freezer, where they emerged with metal tins of pre-shaped beef patties. Lance manned the grill, wiping it down with an oily cloth and letting it heat. Fred started up the fryer, frozen fries and nuggets at the ready.

Instead of using the pre-chopped vegetables from the fridge, Pietro started chopping his own tomatoes, onions, and lettuce. At Scott's questioning look he explained, "If we're sneaky about it, we can come back a few times before they figure out they're being robbed."

Well, they were being tidier than Scott would have thought possible. Cleaning up after themselves. None of them even touched the cash register. "How often do you do this?"

Todd shrugged. "A man's gotta eat."

"But I thought Magneto... Mystique... Don't they take care of you?"

The boys exchanged an amused look before beginning to laugh. "That's cute, Summers."

"We're pissants," Lance explained. "Hoods. Trash. Teenage dirtbags. _Nobody_ gives a fuck about us."

"Nobody _would_ give a fuck about you, either, Orphan Boy," Pietro added cheerfully. "Lonely mutant brat who can't even control his powers? You'd be right up Shit Creek _with_ us if Baldy hadn't made you his little ward."

Lance frowned at him. "Too far, P. Tone it down a notch or ten."

"Right. Sorry."

Numbly, Scott watched them work. Todd pulled plastic caps out of a bucket and started screwing them into a soda dispenser. He started filling large empty cups— no ice, just soda. "You could make yourself useful," Todd said, inclining his head to a machine. "Make some shakes."

Scott frowned at the machine. "I don't know how to..."

Todd rolled his eyes. Pushed past him. Opened a little door, where a five-gallon tub of ice cream chilled in a countertop freezer. "Scoop the ice cream into that metal cup. Add milk. Add flavoring. Push the cup into this little nob, and the immersion blender will do the rest."

Scott did his best to comply. "If you're so good at this, why don't you just work here? Instead of stealing, I mean."

Lance flipped a burger on the grill. Pressed it flat with his spatula. "You really think we do fuckall all day, don't you. _Yes,_ we have jobs, genius. Someone has to pay the rent."

"And the electricity. And the heating. And the water." Todd ticked their expenses off on his fingers. "Adds up when minimum wage is a whopping five bucks an hour... Ain't much left for groceries, or meds."  
  
"Or hospital visits," Fred supplied. "Or school stuff."  
  
"And fucking _forget_ any emergency money. We're one bad day from being homeless," Pietro finished.

Scott thought back to Lance, collapsing in the gutter after selling his plasma...

Todd gave him a pat. "S'okay," he reassured. "Xavier pulled you from the trash and put a bell 'round your neck and declared you the cutest kitten on the block. You've _got_ someone to foot your bills— you don't _have_ to run with the street rats."

Was that what this was? An attempt to 'scare him straight'? If so, it was a pathetic attempt. Hadn't he been sleeping on their sofa despite the mold and roaches; pulling his weight with chores; trying to understand the others, despite the hazing and jibes? He wasn't _such_ a coward as to run away from one little poverty-driven robbery.

If they'd wanted him to leave, they shouldn't have tested how stubborn he could be. Squaring his shoulders, Scott continued to scoop ice cream and held his head high.  
  
In that moment, he didn't think he was imagining the glint of pride in Alvers's eyes. It felt better than any praise Xavier had ever given.

**#6#**

Out of all his boys, Lance never would've thought he needed to warn _Summers_ to keep it in his pants.  
  
Yet here he stood mid-party starting to go to seed, and towards the shadowy fence of a rich-bitch's backyard, he saw Summers.

Summers, with some NYU frat boy's tongue halfway down his throat.

Summers, head tipped back, laughing so loud Lance could hear him from the patio.

A strange heat coursed through Lance's veins. Something that felt a little like anger and a little like excitement and a lot like danger. He tried to quell it when the liquid in the keg behind him started to slosh... Now wasn't a good time for quakes; not with half of Bayville standing witness.  
  
It escaped him anyway when Frat Boy stuffed a bold hand down the back of Summers' jeans, squeezing. _Lance_ had bought him those jeans, after Todd tried to do the laundry and ended up bleach-staining everyone's clothes. He'd bought them, and then had secretly admired the look of Summers' long legs in them every time they were worn.  
  
Now they'd be forever ruined in Lance's mind.  
  
The red paper lanterns hanging on the porch's awning swayed in wake of Lance's rumblings. A few partygoers swayed, too, exclaiming, laughing, too drunk or high to care.

Then a curious thing happened: Summers stumbled. Not from the quake— that wasn't close, or large, enough to bother him. No; he stumbled like a man too drunk to stand.

His Frat Boy caught him; held him up, and Scott clung dizzily to the man's neck for dear life. The man started dragging him closer to the corner of a fence, hidden by shadowy trees and bushes. A place where anything could happen; far away from prying eyes...

Lance dropped his plastic cup, spattering his boots with cheap beer. He started pushing his way through the crowd of dancing, spinning, snorting, drinking, kissing, laughing people. It wasn't easy— he was a tall person, but nobody was in a hurry to move for him. But he fought his way through all the same, never taking his eyes off of the hedge that Scott disappeared behind.  
  
It was a dark night, late in the summer. The moon was scarcely a sliver of a crescent, casting next to no light over the party. Lance had to rely on his ears as he squirmed and grunted his way through branches and leaves, scraping his skin on thorns as he went. There were no voices to follow, but there was rustling. Panting. Grunting.

His anger briefly replaced by panic, Lance burst through to the other side and made out the outline of two bodies on the ground; one crouched over the other. As he squinted, he saw the shiny flash of the frat boy's jacket. He was tugging with some difficulty at the button of Scott's jeans.

"What'tre you doin'—?" Scott slurred, sounding tired; confused.

"Shh, it's okay." The frat boy sounded younger than Lance had assumed. Roughly their age; maybe a year or two older. "Just gotta hold still—" There was a hiss of metal teeth as he finally got the zipper of Scott's jeans open.

Lance raised a leg and kicked him squarely in the side of the head. It was too dark for good aim, and he barely managed to clip the guy's ear. There was no satisfying crunch of contact between boot and skull. Still, it was enough to send the creep rolling; cursing foully. _"What_ the fuck—"

Lance ignored him. He crouched over Scott, unable to see whether his eyes were open under his visor. "Summers!"

"I don't feel good," Scott mumbled. A quick whiff of his lips revealed a worryingly sweet scent. 

"Did you drink something?" Lance asked. "Jesus fuck, Summers, don't you know not to drink what strangers give you?!"

Whatever Scott said next was drowned out by the frat boy straightening up and rounding on Lance, grabbing him by the sleeve. "Who the fuck are you?!"

"The guy that's about to kick your ass," Lance retorted. When the guy made to haul him up, Lance thrust his fist into a patch of dirt. A small quake had the guy falling painfully to his knees.

He stayed down, gaping at Lance in confusion, which rapidly dawned into horror. "You're a—"  
  
Scott's hand reached for Lance's wrist, holding on, as though keeping himself from falling off the face of the earth. He squeezed. "Lance..."  
  
Lance couldn't recall Summers ever using his first name before. It did something strange to his chest, making it squeeze as though it were too small to hold his stupid, squishy insides. "I'm here."  
  
"You're—"  
  
"Yes," Lance snapped, fixing a steely-eyed scowl onto the unzipped, would-be rapist. "Yep. I'm a filthy fucking mutant, and what they say about us is true: we don't play nice with humans. There are a million ways to kill you, and I'm about to find every one."  
  
Apparently, this little monster believed him, judging by the way he flinched back, eyes enormous. Good; Lance didn't think he was just bluffing, either. He moved to loom over the guy, but—  
  
"Alvers. Knock it off."  
  
He hadn't heard Pietro's approach, but then, he rarely did. The other mutant gripped him by the back of his shirt, tugging him away. "Take care of Summers. I've got this."  
  
Lance resisted, pulling away. He didn't _want_ to let Pietro deal with the little creep; he wanted to wrap his hands around the bastard's throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze and—  
  
_"Al. Vers._ We have an audience."

Lance glanced first at Pietro, who might look like a pretty party boy at first glance, but anyone who bothered to look twice could see a life's worth of struggle and survival and ruthless, dirty determination in his too-blue eyes.  
  
Then he glanced over his shoulder, just now noticing a small percentage of the party gathering at the hedge, using glowsticks to peer at them in the darkness, talking uneasily amongst themselves. They were drunk; high; Lance's quakes could be written off as an intoxicated imagination, but only if he stopped immediately.

Besides; Pietro was much better trained in the art of making unpleasant people disappear.

"Fine," Lance snapped, sitting back on his heels. "Fine. But, Maximoff—"

"I _said_ I'll take care of it."

Scott was practically dead weight in Lance's arms. He'd always been the bigger of the two, well-nourished, while Lance's upbringing had consisted largely of whatever canned crap his various foster homes could be bothered to scrounge up for him. Summers was solid, and hard to drag.

"Move," Lance demanded of the partiers, still watching him, useless as lemmings as he pushed his way through their number.

He noticed belatedly that Scott's pants were still gaping open, and stopped to fix them.

"Don't..." Scott mumbled, hands raising to ineffectively bat Lance off of him. "Please don't..."

It was the 'please' that did it. Lance felt something hot spear in his throat, something sting at his eyes, that felt alarmingly like bile and tears. He was so angry he was shaking, and yet he thought he might break down into sobs.

"I wouldn't do that," Lance promised, tightening his grip around Scott's chest, hiding his face in his shoulder. "I'm not... I'm... I'm a monster, but I'm not _that_ kind of monster..."

Whether Scott understood was doubtful, but he stopped trying to push Lance away, and instead patted his hair. "Don't cry," he slurred. "S'okay..."

It wasn't okay. _None_ of this was okay. It had been a mistake to bring Scott here. It had been a mistake to ever let him leave his pretty gilded cage with Xavier and the X-brats. This was all Lance's fault. What had he expected to happen; that Xavier's spoiled pet kitten would be able to adapt to his, Lance's, lifestyle? Kittens got _hurt_ in Lance's world.

Sniffing loudly, giving himself a shake, Lance got Scott's jeans fixed, and then they were off. They'd had to park some ways away from the house party. They'd been cruising for a party; any party with Jaguars and BMWs; something eastside with tall glass walls, reeking of pot and stronger. The more anonymous, the better. And they'd sure found it; and worse.

It wasn't worth it. A week's worth of groceries wasn't worth Scott getting fuckin' roofied and molested on his first big night out.

"I'm gonna take you home," Lance told Scott, finally finding where he'd parked the Jeep looking particularly dingy between a Rolls and a Sergio. _Fucking_ New York. Oh, stuff like this happened back home in Illinois, too; it happened all over the world. But somehow dressing it up in the glam wrapper of the uber-rich just made the whole affair uglier. Dirtier.  
  
Scott waited patiently, dazedly, as Lance opened up the doors. Got Scott inside, and reached around him to buckle him in. "I've never got the front seat before... Shotgun..."  
  
Lance didn't trust himself to speak. He shut the door. Walked around. Climbed in. Started the engine. For the first time he could remember, he didn't feel like flicking on the radio.

"I'm really hot," Scott muttered, reaching to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. His hands were clumsy on the fabric.

Lance switched on the AC, which worked, but barely. Was overheating a symptom of roofies? What drug cocktail had that fucker even given him? Was Scott having a bad reaction because of an allergy? Something to do with his mutation?

He could focus his mind on one task only: Getting Scott home. Daddy Xavier had the tech and cash to fix this, whatever it was.

He had to. Right?

He white-knuckled it the whole way there, hands at ten and two, eyes on the road. His stomach was tying itself in knots the whole time, while Scott only stared out the window.

When he recognized the neighborhood, he let out a whine of protest. "No, _this_ isn't home..."

"It is. It's _your_ home."

"No, no, please no... Home is with you..."

"No, Summers, it's not!" Lance's voice was sharp; clipped. He had to keep himself in control, though he felt so high-strung it was a miracle he wasn't cracking fault lines into the road. "You? You aren't one of us. You can't be."

Scott stared at him in absolute misery, mouth open, blown-out eyes huge. "Please," he said again.

Lance ground his teeth, gripping the steering wheel so hard that something creaked— whether in the wheel or his hand was anyone's guess. "No."  
  
Summers offered no more argument, but the hurt in his eyes was, almost, worse.

Pulling in front of the wrought iron gate that surrounded Xavier's extensive, lush green property, Lance threw the Jeep in park. He made to get out, but then Scott's hands were on his face. He'd somehow managed to get himself unbuckled, and had scooted over to Lance's side of the interior.

In that moment, Lance couldn't have protested if he wanted to... And he wasn't sure he did.

Because Scott’s mouth was on his, and his hands were in Lance’s hair, and he tasted of tequila and salt and Lance’s brain fizzled out on all thought with an audible buzzing noise as soon as a tongue slipped between his lips. _Oh…_

Scott roughly grabbed Lance’s hand and pulled it off the door handle, putting it on his own waist instead as he climbed into Lance’s lap, legs muscular and thick and bracketing Lance’s thighs as he rocked. He wasn’t hard — neither of them were; thank _God_ — but the act itself was inherently, undeniably sexual.

Scott rocked again, cautious, and then set up a rhythm; hands on Lance’s shoulder, tongue in his mouth, _rocking on his lap_ . And sure, they weren’t hard yet, but if this didn’t stop fast, one or both of them was _gonna_ be.

Lance raised his hands to Scott’s shoulders, pushing him away more harshly than was probably necessary. “Summers, what the _fuck?!”_

Scott looked at him, mouth parted, panting a little. His lips were swollen and wet, his hair disheveled, and with his partially unbuttoned shirt, he seemed particularly indecent on this darkened street corner. Lance swallowed hard. _There_ was an image that was gonna follow him into dreams.

Not only that, Lance realized, but from this close proximity he could see Scott’s actual eyes beneath his tinted glasses. He couldn’t tell what color they were, of course, but he could make out their shape; the length of his lashes. He could imagine what Scott’s face might look like without the necessary device. 

It wasn’t a bad face.

“I want you to touch me,” Scott said, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t you wanna touch me?”

And if _that_ question didn’t pool with all the blood to Lance’s groin! Fuck, damn, and shit.

“Okay!” Lance declared loudly, and gave Scott another push, nearly upending him into the footwell. “Playtime’s over. Move your ass, Summers.

Scott blinked at him, uncomprehending, so with a sigh Lance again climbed out and came around to help him out. To walk with him to the weird little gargoyles on the McMansion's wrought iron gates. He addressed the one with a mini speaker in its open mouth. "Yo! X-brats! Come get your boy."

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the gargoyle's twin, on the opposite side of the fence, raised its head to look at Lance. Its mouth held a shiny circle that might be a camera lens. Lance waved at it. Pointed to Scott. "I'm serious; he needs medical attention. I'm giving him back. Return to sender, or whatever."

He could probably leave. Could prop Scott up against the fence and vamoose before the peanut gallery came spilling out to interrogate him. Hell; that was probably what they were waiting for him to do.

That didn't feel right, somehow. At the very least, they should hear the story from a sober person, right? It might help them determine what sort of treatment Scott needed.

This was risky thinking... There was every chance they'd want to rip Lance's head off for allowing any of this to happen. It was, after all, completely his fault. His fault for bringing Scott to the party; for not keeping a better eye on him. His fault for ever allowing Summers to stay with them to begin with.

Maybe Lance wanted them to rip his head off. Maybe he wanted someone to attack him for what he'd done... It was better than lying in bed, sleepless, tearing himself apart with guilt.

"Look," Lance said, propping Scott against his chest to lift both hands, palms skyward in supplication. "I don't have any weapons. Want me to strip down for you? I will. You can do your freaky mind shit on me, Xavier, if it helps. I'm serious. Summers was fuckin' roofied, and I don't want to leave him alone. Please... let me do the right thing, for once. Then I'll leave; I promise."

There was a long, considering pause. Then, with a creak of mechanical hinges, the gate swung open.

Steeling himself, Lance took a steadying breath and made to carry Summers back home, to where he belonged.

**#7#**

It took all the courage Scott had in his body, and _then_ some, just to leave Xavier's mansion. To leave for _good,_ shutting the door on a house he'd outgrown. A house that, maybe, had never fit him to begin with. He was now withdrawn on courage; bankrupt; well in the red.  
  
And yet it looked like he'd need to exude just a little more, leaking trails of it wherever he went. Courage to go up to his room and pack his bags. Courage to carry those bags to the garage and load them into his car. Courage to drive away, and then a little more for every mile passed.  
  
At least he still had a key to the Brotherhood's front door. It was late, even for those four. Even if Pietro was out clubbing or spying or _whatever_ it was he did after midnight, the other three should be deeply asleep.

Feeling uncomfortably like an intruder, he stepped inside and locked up behind himself, all too aware of the sound of his own breathing in the quiet. In the weeks since he'd last been inside this damaged home, it'd accumulated snowdrifts of clutter. The sofa where he'd intended to sleep was taken up by what looked like a crushed kitchen chair, half a television, and, inexplicably, a ceramic teal elephant the size of a toilet.

Rather than attempt to sort through the mess, Scott dragged the tattered dregs of his courage upstairs with him, and pushed Lance's bedroom door open. Once there, however, it abandoned him utterly, leaving him frozen in place.

From the light of the hallway, he saw that Lance's room was equally, if not more, trashed than all the rest of the house. The veiny cracks on the ceiling and each wall spiderwebbed out, a dense ripple effect that extended all the way to the hall.   
  
The floor was a swamp of dirty laundry, and the desk was piled high with random junk, some of which Scott recognized from school. A backpack. Old projects. And how Lance managed to sleep with so many of his possessions in the bed with him was anyone's guess. Maybe he was part dragon.  
  
Amidst boots and homework and the case of his guitar lay Lance. It took Scott's eyes too long to adjust to the dimness, to realize he was wide awake, staring at the door. Staring at _him._ Lance was probably a defensive sleeper, waking the moment someone pushed open his door.  
  
"I didn't mean to wake you," Scott said stupidly, quickly. What _had_ he been hoping for, then? To mother-hen Lance's sleeping body; to tuck him in and kiss his forehead and wish him sweet dreams, all without the weight of being seen?

"You're in pajamas," Lance replied, his voice croaky with sleep or cigarettes, or both.

Scott looked down at himself. The old PJ bottoms were a bit too small. They showed too much ankle at the hems. "I couldn't sleep."

"So you came here."

Scott said nothing. He hoped he wouldn't be sent home. He knew the words Lance would use to do it— he'd say it was Scott's fault he'd gotten hurt at the party. That a boy who'd lived such a cushy life didn't belong in their world of broken glass and baseball bats. That he didn't fit. That they didn't _want_ him to fit.

Instead, Lance said, "Come here, then. I'm fuckin' _tired."_

Scott obeyed without a second's hesitation, picking his way through the rubble to the bed, which was too small to hold two such big boys. He helped Lance push all the junk to the floor, and then crammed himself in next to him. 

It was a tight fit, but that was alright, because he was invited; wanted. For perhaps the first time since his parents' death, he _trusted_ someone when they said he was welcome; that he belonged.

Lance dropped the blankets over Scott. Held a hand out. "Goggles."

Closing his eyes tight, Scott removed the uncomfortable plastic headgear and dropped them in Lance's palm. He heard Lance reach to set them on his bedside table. From his pajama pocket, he drew the fabric contraption, sealed by velcro snaps. It wrapped around his head, keeping his eyelids firmly shut.

Blind to the world, Scott's senses felt heightened. Something about the casual intimacy of the moment had his heart competing for the Kentucky derby; Lance wore only boxer shorts, and his leg hair was tickly against Scott's shin.

Lance settled back down beside him, rolling to face the wall. "Go to sleep, Summers."

Sleep took a long time coming, but in the end, Scott obeyed. He slept deeper than he could ever remember doing before. And when he woke, he was alone in the bed, but not in the room. After putting his goggles back on, he saw Lance sat at the windowsill, long and leggy and golden-brown, a cigarette held between two fingers burning to nothing without his notice.  
  
"Those things will give you cancer," Scott huffed, pretending he didn't enjoy the smell of Menthols. It was yet another thing he wasn't supposed to like— that good boys _mustn't_ like. Scott was still a good boy, right?

Lance responded with tolerant silence. Maybe he knew Scott's heart wasn't really in the scolding. Maybe he didn't care either way.

He ashed the cigarette out the window, took a final drag, and ground it out against the metal sill. Then he just sat, an arm draped over his knee, and _Looked_ at Scott. "What are you doing here, Summers?"

 _Here._ In Lance's bed, in Lance's house, in Lance's life.

"I can leave if you want me to."

"That's not what I said."  
  
More _Looking._ Whoever thought that _only_ blue eyes could be piercing had clearly never been speared by Lance's steady, honey stare. Scott squirmed, head down.  
  
"Summers..."  
  
"I didn't feel right," he tried, badly, to explain. "Back... There. It's like... It's like I let everyone down by being fallible, and now nobody knows what to do with me."

"The fallen hero, huh?"

Scott glared down at his knees, covered by Alvers's blanket. There was a cigarette burn in the corner... Of _course_ Alvers was a bed-smoker.

Alvers slid off the windowsill and approached. Scott tried not to notice how very _much_ bare skin was on display... It was hardly like he'd never seen Alvers in just his underwear before. It shouldn't matter. It _shouldn't..._

Scott had scarcely come to grips with the fact that he liked boys at all, and that was a far cry from suspecting he liked Alvers in particular. Scott wondered if life would ever catch him a break; would deal him in on what was happening before it happened. Probably not, though.

Lance knelt on the bed. "Are we just a vacation home to you, Summers? Somewhere to go just to feel better about yourself? Slumming it with the trash?"

Scott's face flamed. He made to stand up, but Alvers stopped him, a hand on his chest. "Answer me."

"No. That's not what you are. Not to me... Not at all."  
  
"Then _what?"_  
  
Scott rarely had a problem with words. He could churn out a five-page essay in a few hours with little to no effort. He could compose a rousing speech to lead his friends into combat. But right now, good, reliable words failed him.

He took Alvers's hand, instead. The free one resting on top of the bed. After inspecting it a moment, the scars and the callouses, he brought it to his face. Rested his cheek in the overwarm palm. Heart shivering, he closed his eyes.

There was a considering pause. Scott felt Lance's eyes on him. Felt Lance thinking. The hand on his chest shifted, a rough thumb tracing the shape of his collarbone through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Then Lance exhaled. "Oh, Summers."

Scott's heart plummeted. This was it, then: the inevitable rejection. Rejected for something he shouldn't even want. What could he have expected? And, worse, that wasn't scorn, wasn't anger in Alvers's voice at all. Just more quiet _Knowing._

Alvers took Scott's chin and tilted his face up. He was... Certainly gentler than Scott anticipated... Maybe it was pity driving his care. Wouldn't _that_ just be a riot! Bracing himself for painful impact, for words to break his heart, Scott took a breath—

Only for it to freeze solid in his lungs when Lance kissed him.  
  
It was dry; a slide of chapped lips, the hand on his chest rising to grip his shoulder instead, but it was impossible to mistake for anything else. Scott's eyes flew open, and he saw the small furrow between Lance's brows, as though the other man was considering his actions carefully.  
  
Scott took a moment to process what had happened. What it entailed. What would change, and what would stay the same. No matter how he balanced the scales, the only decision that made any sense was this: _Lance, Lance, Lance._  
  
Watching him, Lance cleared his throat. "Too much?"

"Not sure yet. Try it again?"

**#8#**

Summers was back on his nonsense.  
  
Lance couldn't help but grin when he saw the familiar prissy convertible pull alongside his Jeep where he idled at the stop-light, glinting the artificial red of cherry candy; of a pretty girl's lips. It was the sort of red that inspired a bull to charge.  
  
"Your boyfriend's here," Pietro said dismissively, lowering the visor to admire his reflection in the mirror.  
  
Lance's grin grew another few wicked degrees. Keeping his foot on the brake, he revved the engine.

"You're gonna float the valve again," Fred warned from the backseat. Lance ignored him. Sure, there was no chance in hell a rickety old Jeep carrying four passengers could ever take on a regularly maintained vehicle carrying only one, but it was the spirit of the thing. And besides; goody-goody Scott would never play along.

Scott looked over them, his derisive scoff just barely enough to mask a tiny smile. His bark was much worse than his bite these days.

"Yo, _Summers!"_ Todd called tauntingly out the window. "I heard your boyfriend's so ugly he went into a haunted house and came out with a job application!"

"Hey!" Lance growled, turning to glare at his roommate. "Do you wanna _walk_ to Dairy Queen?"  
  
"Chill, man; I'm just setting the vibe."

Scott ducked his head, lips pressed together. Heaven help he ever smile at something Todd said. The little toad would never let him live it down.

The crosswalk counted down the seconds — _seven, six, five..._ — and Lance revved the engine again, loud and obnoxious. He let up quickly when the Jeep made a worrisome squealing noise, juddering around them all. "Fuck..."  
  
Then came the most unexpected sound of all: a retort. Summers, too, was revving his engine.  
  
"No-o!" Todd crowed, sounding awed; delighted. "No _fuckin'_ way..."  
  
Yes fucking way. Scott revved again and, when the light turned green, squealed out of the intersection at a rate that would infuriate any cop from Bayville to Alcatraz.  
  
Pietro gave Lance's shoulder a slap. "Move, idiot!"  
  
Lance eased off the clutch; fumbled for the shifter; praying to any God listening that his girl wouldn't stall in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  
  
God must've been feeling merciful, or perhaps just bored. The Jeep slid smoothly from first to second gear without a complaint. _"Thank_ you, baby," he whispered through clenched teeth, and nudged things closer and closer to overdrive. Summers's taillights weren't yet _too_ far off in the distance... There was still a chance, however small, at surpassing him...  
  
Pietro and Todd's whooping echoed the thundering of his heart; the doglike smile on his face as the wind beat his hair to hell and back. He had no words for this elation. Scott was playing his game. Scott was playing with _him._  
  
Closer and closer; yard by foot; to his plate, to his rims, to his fenders. Scott and Lance raced neck and neck to the next traffic light. When Lance dared take his eyes off the road, gauging his opponent's confidence, he was warmed scalp to toes to see that his boyfriend was smiling.

_~ fin ~_


End file.
